Nicodemus Legend, A Legend In His Own Mind
by Lothithil
Summary: Dime Novelist Ernest Pratt has his hands full when a famous writer comes to town with his wilful niece and hires four exbankrobbers to steal Pratt's latest book and Prof. Bartok's valuable research.
1. Act 1 The Science of Perils

**The Adventures of Nicodemus Legend  
Legend In His Own Mind **

Act One: The Science of Perils

_In the center of the street two figures stood motionless as the wind danced dervishes around them. The meek townsfolk cowered behind the storefronts and raised boardwalks, holding their breath while they looked on in fear. On this day, a day of destiny, death walked in the sleepy streets of Sheridan. _

The lean, dark figure of Terrible Tom Malloy cut a sharp shadow that stretched away from the westering sun. At his hips hung a silver revolver. His right hand hovered near the pearl-inlaid handle, black-fingered gloves flexing slowly as he stared toward the man he had vowed to kill. In his left hand he held the long blonde hair of Crissy Sloan, the trading-post keeper's innocent beautiful young daughter, twisted around his fingers as if he held a leash. She struggled to get away from him, but his grip was like iron. She covered her face with one hand, to hide her tears that she feared would be the death of the man she loved.

That man stood a ways down the street, his booted feet barely touched by Terrible Tom's out-stretched shadow. The prairie wind whipped the man's coattails around his narrow hips, rippled the man's hair beneath the brim of his white hat. The fabric of his yellow coat snapped and leaped in the playful wind, leaving his hands that hung at his sides clearly visible. He carried no gun.

He didn't need a gun. He was Nicodemus Legend.

Bent carefully over his manuscript, sharpened stylus held in a firm but graceful grip with his long fingers, Ernest Pratt considered what eloquent phrases he should use to compose the final scene. Idly, he tapped his lower lip with the pencil, then a gleam came into his eye. He jabbed the sharpened lead down onto the paper to capture his brilliant idea...

"Ouch! Be careful, Ernest!" His desk suddenly moved violently, scattering his papers across the bed sheets.

"Sorry, m'dear," Pratt purred, tenderly kissing the damaged area, surreptitiously smoothing the graphite smudge on the fine silk garment his companion was almost wearing. "The perils of creative literature, I'm afraid. No damage done."

"Well, when I agreed to help you finish your book," Henrietta said, her husky voice and long vowels sending trills of excitement to Pratt's brain, "I didn't realize how... involved... I'd have to be. I thought you just wanted a little... inspiration." She turned and batted her long eyelashes at him.

"Henrietta, my sweet Henrietta. There are three things an author needs to write a good book. A sharp pencil, some quality paper, and the unyielding support..." Pratt delivered more kisses to the sensual curve of Henrietta's shoulder, working his way toward her ear... "of a high quality writing surface."

Henrietta laughed as Pratt's mustache tickled her neck. "I've been told that I was 'high quality' before, Ernest, but this is the first time I've ever been called furniture."

Pratt smiled and worked his way back down her shoulder. "Aren't you glad I'm not a blacksmith? Then, all I'd need is a hammer, a horseshoe, and a nag upon which to nail it..."

Henrietta laughed and twisted around, throwing Pratt off of her back so that he slid off of the slippery silk coverlet and landed gracelessly upon the floor in the center of his scattered papers. "You are a cad, Mr. Pratt. You ain't half the gentleman that Nicodemous Legend is."

Pratt gave her one of his winningist smiles. "If you'd prefer the company of Nicodemus Legend, I can arrange that, you know. He is a close... personal... acquaintance of mine." Softly, he captured one of her dainty, stockinged feet and began to nibble on her ankle.

"Mine, too," the woman laughed throatily, "and you'll never finish that book of yours if you keep getting distracted like this." She pulled her foot out of his hand and slowly caressed his chin with her toes, then placed her heel against his heart and gave him a gentle shove to send him on his way.

"Ah! The story of The Life of Ernest Pratt. Kicked in the heart by every beautiful woman he has ever met." He gave a long, suffering sigh, then began to gather his papers together. "You're right, darlin'. Back to work for me." Casting one last, longing look toward the beauty lounging on the bed. "You inspire me, my muse of the prairie. Let me just go and polish this pesky paragraph... to finish articulating this exciting adventure; then I think I shall dedicate myself to writing something a little different... perhaps a rousing romance?" He stepped out of the door, then leaned back in to add, "I shall definitely need your invaluable assistance for that story."

He closed the door with a snick, then yelped as someone touched his shoulder. His papers and pencil were sent flying out of his hands again.

"Janos! Are you trying to give me a heart-attack? What are you doing lurking in the hallway?" Pratt bent down and retrieved his papers a second time.

Janos Bartok glared haughtily down at his partner. "Ernest! Really! Aren't you supposed to be working?"

Straightening up swiftly, his arms full of wrinkled papers, Pratt gave his friend an ironic smile. "Believe me, I _was_ working! And if you don't believe me, ask Miss Hen... ah-Hem... never mind! A gentleman never tells. What do you want?"

"I have come to collect you. Apparently in your zeal to finish your latest piece..." Bartok glanced toward room number five and cleared his throat,"... your latest _manuscript_, that is... you seem to have forgotten that we have an appointment. You were supposed to help me test the new descent parasol."

"I didn't forget. I have been avoiding you," Pratt said honestly. He opened the door to his room with his elbow, laying his as-yet-unfinished manuscript on the table. "It is essential, see? that I finish this book before you force me to test any more of your experiments, as it is unlikely that I will survive to write anymore."

"Ernest, you know I would never ask you to do anything dangerous..."

"What about the Bartok Explosive Package? You told me I was going to be in a moving picture and the next thing I know, I wake up next to the bones of a dead man, trying to kiss Skeeter! And what about the time that I tested that bullet-resistant vest... I got shot in the chest!"

"That wasn't my fault! I wasn't shooting at you; that was Mr. Hickock's bandit, that horrible Mr. Jack McCall. And the vest worked, by the way; in fact, it saved your life! I don't see why you are getting so upset, Ernest. It _is_ your job to do these things."

Pratt froze in the motion of pouring himself a drink. "My _job_? **My** job? No, no-no-no,..."

"Yes, it _is_ your job. My scientific discoveries have helped to make Legend what he is today. The least you could do is assist me in the development of them."

"No, the 'least' I could do is what I am doing now," Pratt quipped. He raised his glass to his nose and took a savouring sniff of the liquor, then downed it with a snap. "Ah-ah!"

Bartok frowned at his friend. "If you'll forgive me for saying so, you aren't exactly behaving like Nicodemus Legend. What if someone were to see you drinking whiskey, or... carrying-on with a woman of ... questionable repute?"

Pratt poured himself another drink. "Her repute is not in question... everyone knows that Henrietta is a... a kind and giving woman."

"Well, she'll be _giving_ you the _kind_ of reputation that could cost Nicodemus Legend his good name. It is your job to keep Legend alive, both in reality and on the page. And, as it is the only job that you have, one would think that you would pursue every avenue of profit available to you."

Pratt set his glass down with a clink. "'The only job I have...?' My job, _professor_, it to write books. Remember me? Ernest Pratt, not-so-intrepid author of the adventures of Nicodemus Legend? Writing books," he repeated slowly, "that is my job. Actually, I have two jobs, since thanks to you, I am now two completely different people. _Thanks_ to you, I am also Nicodemus Legend. _His_ job is to sell the books **I** write. Not to die wilst attempting to fly _sans_ wings... or by becoming a human projectile!" Pratt fished around in the pocket of his vest until he came up with a fresh cigar.

Even Janos Bartok's patience had a limit. "You're being unreasonable, Ernest. I will interpret your stubbornness as eagerness to finish your book. But after you are done, Ramos and I could really use your help." Bartok seized the doorknob just as Pratt struck a match to light a cigar. "I can see that pigs will fly before you come to your senses. Good day, Mr. Legend!" he added with an ironic bow. He closed the door softly behind him.

Pratt ran to the door and yanked it open, shouting down the hall, "There's an idea, Janos! Why don't you use a real guinea pig instead of trying to turn me into one!"

Bartok stopped and executed a graceful turn on his heel. "Don't be ridiculous, Ernest. A guinea pig is far too small to simulate the weight, height, and mass of a man your size. Besides, that would be cruel to the animal."

"It would be cruel to make _me_ do it, but that's never stopped you before!" Pratt slammed the door, wincing as room trembled. The chandelier jingled slightly, swaying.

Pratt puffed on his cigar, but it had gone out. "Darn! That was my last match!" He patted his pockets anyway, cigar clenched in his teeth. His eyes were drawn upward by the swaying of the gas-light chandelier. Grabbing a chair, he stood upon the seat and balanced himself by grasping the chandelier. He couldn't quite reach the flame with the cigar in his mouth, so he placed one foot on the chair back and the other on the table, pulling himself up to the flickering flame.

Downstairs, Bartok was just tipping his hat to a lady as he allowed her to cross the threshold before him, when a crash sounded somewhere above. The ceiling shook, sending down wisps of dust. Bartok ran back upstairs, thrusting the door open to find Pratt sprawled among his (again) scattered manuscript pages, lying on top of the remains of a chair and table. A smouldering cigar was still clenched in his teeth.

"Maybe testing your experiments is safer than doing my job," Pratt mumbled. He spat out the cigar and groaned.


	2. Act 2 Legend Vs History

**Act Two, Legend vs. History  
**

Ernest Pratt was arranging his tie when a solid knock sounded against his door. He walked over to open it, staring down at the cloth as he fiddled with the knot.

Outside the door, Pratt found a young man waiting patiently. The boy was tall and thin, and his hair was very bushy and stood straight up on his head.

"Ah. What is it now, Skeeter?"

"Mr. Legend! Good morning! I have a telegraph message for you." The boy spoke with excessive enthusiasm. In his hand he held a folded slip of paper.

Pratt reached for the paper, but Skeeter clenched it tightly so that he could not take it easily from him. Pratt tugged it out of his fingers with a frown and an ironic, "Thank you!" He dug into his vest pocket and tossed the boy a penny, then turned away and pushed the door so that it would close. Skeeter's foot kept it from doing so. When he heard that the door had not closed, Pratt turned back.

"What?"

"Aren't you going to read it, Mr. Legend?"

Pratt held up the paper. It had obviously been opened, read, and refolded many times. "Why should I? You obviously already know what it says."

"Yes, but you don't know what it says," said Skeeter, coming into the room. He had a big grin on his face. "Go on... read it. I can wait."

Pratt tossed the paper on the dresser and resumed mussing with his tie. "Why don't you just tell me what it says... can't you see that I'm in a hurry? I have a date with death and dismemberment, courtesy of our dear Prof Bartok."

"It's a note from your publisher, sir. He's sending Mr. Farber to see you with some high-fa'lutin' gentleman from back East who writes history books." Discreetly, Skeeter glanced at the contents of the manuscript pages littering the table. "He says they should be in on the stage today."

Pratt lunged for the telegram, ripping it in half in his urgency. He quickly read it through, his head turning back and forth between the fragments. "Today? When did this telegraph first arrive?"

"Last week, Mr. Legend. Ol' Barney down at the telegraph office, he don't get around like he used to... bad leg, you know. Work's been piling up on him for some time. Now, if you were eager to get your mail promptly, I'd be happy to check for you on a daily basis... for a small fee."

Pratt felt panic rising through him like a flood. "Do you know what this note says?"

"Of course, Mr. Legend! Who is this Franky fella anyway?"

Pratt knotted the fragments of paper in his fists. His reply came out as a strangled whisper, "Sir Franklin Gutridge is one of the most noted and respected writers of historic text! His name is a by-word in every literary institute between Cambridge and San Francisco. And he's coming here. To meet me." Pratt ran his hands through his hair, looking around wildly. "Whiskey... I need whiskey... right now."

"Mr. Legend! It's ten o'clock in the morning! I thought you didn't drink hard liquor!" Skeeter called out as Pratt grabbed his coat and tore out of the room.

His voice echoed back to Skeeter's ears, "Then I'll drink it softly, as long as it's liquor..."

Pratt hurried through the alley, ducked under Mother Baker's laundry line, and slipped into the rear entrance of the Buffalo Head Saloon with no one the wiser. The tavern was nearly deserted, only the bartender and one sleepy hostess were at the bar. The tables were empty as it was still quite early in the day.

Pratt threw himself upon the bar, grasping the edge. "Lamar! Give me your best pot of single malt, 12 year old Oolong Tea!"

Lamar glanced at the woman who was dozing in her seat, then winked solemnly at Pratt. He set a china cup and saucer on the bar and filled it with bourbon.

Pratt grabbed the cup and drained it before the liquor had a chance to wet the china. "Ah-ack! Again, Lamar! I don't want to see the bottom of this cup!"

"You better go easy on that, Mr. Legend. You want to be at your best for your meeting, sir."

The cup clinked against the saucer as Pratt dropped his arm in surprise. "You read that message, too? Did anyone not read it?"

"Was it the one from your publisher, or the telegram from your mother about your 'little problem' back home?" asked the drowsy woman.

"Ack! Just... pour the whiskey, Lamar! Or maybe you could just hit me over the head with the bottle... that would take less time and still achieve the effect for which I am hoping!"

"He's had enough, Lamar." Janos Bartok stood in the open door of the saloon, a look of supreme disappointment on his face. His disappointment in his friend was clearly expressed beneath the round tones of his mild Hungarian accent. "Ernest. You promised you would help Ramos and I today."

"And I was on my way to do exactly that, Janos... I swear! I just got this message..." Pratt produced the torn page from two different pockets.

"Yes, yes, so I heard..." Bartok waved the note away, then walked in to take a closer look at Pratt. "Ernest?"

"What?" Pratt straightened himself up self-consciously. "What!"

"You dressed."

"Well, I don't intend to test the descent parasol in the nude..." Pratt reached for his teacup that Lamar had refilled.

"No," Bartok intercepted the cup with practiced ease and set it out of Pratt's reach, "no, I mean... you dressed. You look quite... dapper."

Pratt tilted back his head and favoured Bartok with an ironic smile, patting his lapels. "Thank you! If it is to be that I must die, I plan go out looking my best." He looked past Bartok's shoulder at his drink, obviously trying to think of some way to get past the Hungarian scientist.

Bartok grasped his arm and steered him toward the door, "Well, this is fortuitous! You can go and meet Mr. Farber without delay, and we shall still be able to take advantage of the day. Atmospheric predictions suggest perfect weather to test my newest invention..."

"Ack! No!" Pratt wrenched his arm from Bartok's grip, twisting back toward the bar. "I'd rather jump out of the balloon first! There's a chance I might not survive. Sir Franklin will be..."

"Sir Franklin is here." At the door stood a stout man. He was in solid health, well dressed and well groomed. His hair was neatly tied back and silver-shot at the temples, his face clean-shaven and unlined. His black eyes were bright and sharp, taking in every detail of the room. Beside him stood a meek woman dressed in gray. Beside her stood Milton J. Farber, looking distinctly disheveled and annoyed.

"There you are, Pratt. I am glad to see you received Mr. E. C. Allen's wire and prepared to receive your guest. Sir Franklin Gutridge... Ernest Pratt, also known as Nicodemus Legend. Pratt... Sir Franklin." For once, Farber did not seem angry about the fact that Pratt was in a saloon and likely soiling the impeccable reputation of Nicodemus Legend. Indeed, he seemed so eager to leave that he rushed the introduction. "Well, it's been a long journey. I will see Miss Plain to the hotel and let you two to get acquainted." He took the lady's arm and hurried away.

To Janos Bartok's confusion, Ernest Pratt seemed to shrink before his eyes. Normally, Ernest was assertive, curious, and out-going, but now he stood frozen, staring at Gutridge. Finally, a few whispered words escaped his lips. "Sir Franklin. What an honour..."

"The honour is entirely yours," Sir Franklin said brusquely. He came into the room and removed his coat, tossing it into Bartok's arms as if he were a valet. "See to it that it is brushed and hung up." He tossed a coin toward the stunned scientist, who caught it by reflex.

Pratt stiffened as he watched his friend being treated like a servant. He could tolerate almost any abuse directed toward himself, but he could not stand to see a friend demeaned. "Sir, I think you've made a mistake..."

"Oh, I have. I made a mistake by allowing Allen and that Farber fellow to talk me into this ridiculous trip. I am on my way to San Francisco, to an interview with the heads of education in the University of California... that is my idea of a necessary engagement. I have been railroaded into this pointless trip to a filthy cow-town in order to meet some dime-store novelist..." Gutridge's dark eyes looked Pratt up and down. "Not my idea at all, sir."

Pratt straightened his shoulders, attempting to pull himself together. "E.C. Allen is my publisher, sir. He knows intimately how much respect I hold for you and for your works of historical research. I must have mentioned to him how much I wanted to meet you, and he must have decided that such a meeting might be favourable to our careers, therefore enhancing his own company's reputation..."

"Truly, I see no way this meeting could further either of our careers," Gutridge said dismissively. "My readers do not have any interest in dusty fairy-tales and drunken fantasies, and your readers..." Gutridge gave a scoffing chuckle, "your readers could hardly be familiar with any of my works." The words landed on Pratt like physical blows; he winced and dropped his shoulders.

"Perhaps more of Ernest's readers know of you that you realize, Sir Franklin," Bartok said. He was indignant on behalf of Ernest, but he kept his cultivated demeanor carefully in place. "I am familiar with your dissertation on the cultural influence of Europe in the Americas. I read it during my tenure in the New York University."

Gutridge seemed to see Bartok for the first time. "Have we been introduced, sir?"

Weakly, Pratt attempted an introduction, "Sir Franklin, this is my friend and technical advisor Janos Cristo Bar--"

Gutridge cut him off again. "Obviously the formalities of our meeting have been observed, Mr. Pratt. I am going to the hotel now. Good night... gentlemen." Gutridge took his coat from Bartok's numb fingers and stepped through the swinging doors.

Bartok came to Pratt's side where he stood staring at the place where Gutridge had been. Without comment, he took the teacup from the bar, still full of liquor, and handed it to Pratt. "The velocipede is outside of the hotel, Ernest. I'll just go and get it warmed up."

Pratt stared into the cup, nodding slowly. He sighed, then lifted the cup and drained it before following his friend.

In the Silver King Hotel, a window on the upper-storey was ajar, the curtain held back by a delicate hand. The owner of that hand watched as a dejected Ernest Pratt exit the Buffalo Head Saloon and crossed the dusty street. He paused beside the strange horse-less carriage, speaking to a man standing next to it. He gestured toward the hotel and then to himself. When he stepped onto the boardwalk he disappeared from her view. The brim of his hat shaded his eyes from her, but she didn't need to see his face to tell that he was very upset.

The woman listened carefully. She could hear someone blustering about in the room next to hers, the door dividing their suite was open a sliver. She waited until she heard the person leave again, then she slipped out onto the balcony.

Pratt had changed his clothing and just opened the door of his suite to leave again, when he heard a tapping at his window. Looking up, he saw a shadow outside on the balcony-- a female shadow. He crossed the room and unlatched the French door.

Ernest had always had an eye for women. It had often gotten him into trouble, but more often than not, it had well been worth it. The woman that stood outside his window was slim, her skin was smooth and white, and her hair was dark and pulled back into a pin and thong that was too severe for her delicate face. Her eyes were large and hazel-coloured.

"Madam, if you are lost I would be happy to find you."

A brilliant blush spread over her high cheeks, and Pratt smiled kindly and took her hand, kissing her fingers. The meeting with Sir Franklin might have been a bust, but at least he could say that the day had not been a total waste.

"Mr. Legend… that is, Mr. Pratt," the woman said softly. Her accent told Pratt that she had been raised on the West Coast, but schooled in the Northeast. "Forgive me for this intrusion. I know it is most unseemly to come here like this, uninvited…"

Pratt bent and kissed her hand again. "All is forgiven, madam. I never turn a lady away from my window. Would you care to come inside?"

"I'm sorry… I can't, sir. I… I believe you met my uncle Sir Franklin Gutridge."

Pratt's pleasure evaporated, and he released her hand. "Ah. I understand. You wouldn't want anyone to see you with such an undesirable person as a dime novelist." Traces of hurt creased his eyes, and Mary Jane felt a wave of sympathy wash over her.

"That is not why… I can't explain. I have to get back before I'm missed. I just wanted to say that I am sorry that my … uncle… is such a boor. I like your books very much, and… " She blushed again. She reached into the folds of her skirt and came out with a folded paper-backed book. "I was hoping you might sign this for me, sir. I would treasure it forever."

Depression melted away as Pratt took the book from her. It was a dog-eared copy of one of his books, obviously read many times.

Few things could raise the spirits of Ernest Pratt more quickly than flattery. "Madam, I would be delighted." He produced a pencil from his pocket and smiled. "May I ask to whom I should make this out?"

"To Mary Jane, please." The pencil scrolled over the page, though those brown eyes never left hers. He held the book out to her.

As she took it from his fingers, something crashed in the hall outside of Pratt's room and a voice bellowed something indistinct. The noise spooked Mary Jane, and bobbing a curtsy she turned and fled. Pratt watched her disappear through a window at the end of the balcony. He twirled the pencil in his fingers thoughtfully for a few moments, then latched his window and turned to leave. The pages of his latest book still lay on the table, but he didn't glance at them. His mind was on hazel eyes and blushes. He hummed as he left the room, locking his door behind him.

Standing beyond the corner of the hall, where Pratt had not seen him hiding, Sir Franklin Gutridge stood in the shadows and glowered. Slowly, his frown was replaced by a calculating leer. He walked quietly to the door of the suite he shared with Miss Plain and carefully locked it behind him.

Mary Jane was standing in the room, looking out of the window. She saw Pratt seat himself in the strange vehicle. It belched a cloud of vapour and lurched away, and she watched it until it disappeared in a cloud of dust down the road out of town. Her cheeks still rosy from her meeting with Pratt, and her precious book was hidden away beneath her bedspread.

Sir Franklin pushed the door open and laughed as she jumped in surprise. "Expecting someone, my dear?"

"What do you mean?" She hid her hands behind her back, hoping that her emotions did not show on her face.

Franklin enjoyed her discomfort. "Don't unpack. We aren't staying for very long. I am going to arrange transport back to Denver on the next available coach. Farber will have to cut his business short. I doubt that Legend will be finishing his novel anytime soon. "

Mary Jane's startlement was swiftly replaced by anger. "I heard what you said, Franklin… everyone in town heard! I can't believe you said those things… you are such a snob! How could you be so indifferent to a person's feelings?"

Sir Franklin grunted, pouring himself a generous whiskey. "That man is a wastrel and an insult to the literary community. What could I possibly care about his 'feelings'?"

The woman turned toward him, allowing the curtain to fall closed. "Nicodemus Legend is a successful writer who creates his own stories. The insult to the literary community is you, Franklin. I have participated in this masquerade for far too long. I should never have agreed to write books for you."

"Heh. Like you had a better option for a future. You could be teaching school to a handful of cow-herder's children, or maybe you could be a librarian, looking after the books that others write, rather than writing them for others to read. Nobody will take a book seriously if it is written by a woman." Franklin's rough laugher stung her ears, "Maybe you could write dime novels like your darling Nicodemus Legend? Even he has to change his name to sell his books!"

"My books are well-researched and well-written, and they stand alone as accomplished works of literature. It shouldn't matter if they were written by a woman or a man! I think E. C. Allen would understand if I told him the truth. I don't have to have my name on the book, Franklin. I just want Mr. Allen to know..."

Franklin set his empty glass down and grabbed the woman's arm roughly. "If you go to Allen with the truth, I'll deny everything. I've been selling books under the name of Sir Franklin since before you were born. Do you think that anyone will believe you if you claim to have written them? Don't forget, Mary Jane, that you signed a contract to research books for me, and if you break that contract, I can see that you will never work in a decent job ever again. And if you think that Nicodemus Legend is going to come riding to your rescue, then I'd say you'll be waiting by that window until you are old and gray."

Mary Jane burst into tears. Franklin released her arm and his voice becoming soft, cajoling, "I do well by you, and you do well by me. I'm sorry, Mary Jane, but you know this is the only way you'll ever be able to do what you were meant to do… write books. We're a team. Don't throw it all away." He whispered these platitudes, keeping his delight concealed as he watched her lashes bead with tears. "This is the best you can hope for."

She lowered her eyes in defeat and nodded. He patted her arm patronizingly and then turned away to refill his glass. Thus he did not see her raise her head, and he missed the flash of defiance in her hazel eyes.


	3. Act 3 Trial and Error

**Act Three, Trial and Error**

Pratt rode all the way to Bartok's Research Compound in contemplative silence, offering only succinct answers when his friend attempted to draw him into conversation. After a few miles Bartok stopped trying, merely steering the vehicle down the dusty road. Having been a victim himself of the ridicule of his peers, Janos knew intimately how Ernest felt. He knew also that his sympathy would not be welcome. The only cure was time, and the best treatment was diversion.

The rain tower was throwing long shafts of lightning into the air; Ramos was obviously maintaining Professor Bartok's experiments. As they drew close to the compound, both men could see the huge yellow globe of the hot air balloon moored on the far side of the laboratory. As they rolled to a stop, Bartok could not resist one last attempt to bring his friend out of his depression. "Ernest. In all the time that I have known you, I have never seen you like this. I thought you didn't care about what people thought of you. This Franklin is just a fool, Ernest, like the ones you so dislike who take you for Nicodemus Legend and ignore Ernest Pratt. And if Franklin Gutridge is a knighted soul, then I am the Czar of Tuscany."

Pratt's mustache twitched as he smiled. He let out a deep sigh and slapped his knees. "Janos, you are right. What do I care what he thinks? Am I not an author in my own right? Have I not made an impression on the mind of my readers? ... so what if some of them don't seem to have minds... Anyone can write history; it is merely the recording what has already happened. I create! I envision! I... make legends!" Pratt gestured dramatically.

Bartok smiled. "This is more like the Ernest I know!" He clapped Pratt on the shoulder. "Come... the next phase of our research on the descent parasol is almost ready to begin."

Pratt climbed out of the land rover, stretching, "The next phase? You mean you've tested it already?"

Bartok suddenly would not meet Pratt's eye. "Well... yes..."

Pratt pulled off his goggles and looked at Bartok, his eyebrow arched questioningly. Bartok looked supremely uncomfortable. "Janos?"

"I thought about our earlier conversation, and it made sense to at least test a prototype parasol using a... mass of proportionate size. The test was conclusive, if not... entirely... successful." Bartok changed the subject abruptly with, "Why don't we see if Ramos has got lunch ready?"

"Bartok! Don't tell me... you tested the parasol with a pig, didn't you?"

"You said not to tell you."

Pratt sighed. Sometimes his Hungarian friend could be very stubbornly evasive. "Okay. So what are we having for lunch?"

"Pork chops."

"Ack! And just what is Ramos going to prepare for supper tonight if all does not go well... Pratt pot-roast?"

"Don't be silly, Ernest. I was joking. You'll be perfectly safe." Bartok held the door open for his friend, waiting until he had passed within before adding, "The pig suffered only minimal injuries and will be up and around again in no time."

"Janos!"

xxxxxxxxxx

Mary Jane Plain closed the paper book and held it to her heart. She knew she was being foolish, but knowledge did not keep her heart from beating rapidly, nor did it slow the trembling in her body as she remembered the touch of his lips on her hand. She re-read the inscription on the book, telling herself that he probably always signed his female fans' books with the same words, while another part of her wanted to believe it was only for her: _"To the one who brought sunlight to my darkest hour, Mary Jane, the girl with prairie-green eyes. From your biggest fan, Ernest Pratt."_ She vowed to keep this book hidden from Gutridge. He would destroy it if he knew she had it.

Franklin Gutridge destroyed anything that he thought would interfere with his plans or distract her from completing the books he paid her to research and write. At least during this trip she wasn't expected to be writing, but he still made her miserable with his ruthless control. She wanted to walk down the street of this little town, past the boardwalks and the storefronts, out into the prairies and toward the mountains. They might never find her, might never know she was gone. She longed for that escape.

Mary Jane opened the French doors that led to the balcony and stepped outside. The streets were moderately busy, folks walking about, some riding horses, some driving carriages. They talked, laughed, swore, and went about their lives, oblivious of the fact that they were being observed.

On the horizon lightning flashed suddenly, though the sky was clear and the sun was still high. Mary Jane remembered Farber telling her and Gutridge about the scientist who worked with Ernest Pratt, and how he dabbled about with electricity. Perhaps that was the source of this lightning?

Suddenly, Mary Jane knew what she had to do. She had to go to Pratt and ask him for help. She knew that the man who had brought Nicodemus Legend to life would not refuse the request of a woman in need, and she was most desperately in need. But how could she escape the hotel without Gutridge stopping her?

At that moment, a soft knock sounded upon her door. Mary Jane went inside and carefully hid the novel within the folds of her full skirt. She opened the door to find the young man with strange hair that worked as a clerk in the hotel.

"Good afternoon, ma'am. My name is Skeeter. Mr. Farber sent me to see if you needed anything."

Mary Jane looked Skeeter up and down. He was thin but his clothes were largish on him, and he was very close to Mary Jane's own height.

"Yes, Mr. Skeeter, as a matter of fact, there is something I need..."

xxxxxxxxxx

Much to Pratt's relief, he was not required to test the descent parasol himself. The afternoon was spent filling and hauling large sacks of grain, which Bartok had fashioned to be roughly man-shaped. Each had two floppy arms and legs. Pratt and Ramos stuffed them and wrestled them onto the balloon platform, then Bartok set down to teach his assistants how to fold the shrouds of fabric and coils of thin rope and position them inside a specially designed pack.

"You see, you set this... like so," Bartok said, buckling a harness across Pratt's shoulders, "and you have this cord here, which you pull when your descent reaches a critical stage..."

"Critical meaning just before I become a pancake on the landscape?" Pratt asked with heavy sarcasm, as he grasped the handled cord the Professor had pointed out and gave it an experimental tug.

The package exploded with a soft POP! then showered the men with cascades of silk string and fabric.

"Ah-ha! the release mechanism works perfectly! Thank you, Ernest... though I would have preferred that you hadn't done that inside the laboratory." Janos wrestled aside the mess and began folding the cloth again. "As I was saying, when you reach critical altitude, it will be necessary to deploy your parasol to prevent an impact event. Of course, you have to be careful not to deploy too soon.

"Why not?"

"Because if a wind with an extreme velocity should catch the parasol, it might break the cords or even rip the shroud to shreds."

"Wonderful," Pratt mumbled. "This was so much easier when I was writing it..."

They folded and refolded the shrouds until Pratt was sure that he could have done it in his sleep. Ramos came inside to announce that they had just enough daylight left to test Bartok's grain-man.

The Bartok compound was located within the wide spread of an ancient riverbed. About a mile distant, hills rose above the level ground, lifting sagebrush and yucca stalks toward the sky. Huddled on the top of one of these taller hills, crouching beneath the cover of the thick foliage, two men lay on the dusty ground. They wore dark clothes and held telescoping glasses to their eyes.

They had been watching the compound all day, moving only for the most necessary purposes. The heat of the sun overhead was very uncomfortable, but they did not relax their vigilance.

Finally, as the sun meandered toward the western quarter of the sky, movement occurred down below. A flame burned brightly beneath the vast yellow balloon and slowly it rose into the sky. One of the men fixed his glass on the basket.

"I see all three of them. That means that the building is unguarded. We should be able to get in and out again before they get back."

"Boss says that there might be some traps laid up around this place... he says that Bartok is skittish."

"Seems he has a right to be, since we're here to steal some of his secret work."

"Are you sure we can trust that fella that hired us? He looked kinda 'light in the boots' if'n you ask me."

"I trust the money he gave us up front. Those brainy scientists back East will pay more gold for whatever we can bring back."

"Sure beats robbing banks, eh, Wylie?"

"Yeah. It's nice not gettin' shot at for a change. Come on, Jenk!"

Together they left their hiding place, running down the hill out onto the flatland. Their clothes that had made them nearly invisible in the hills now stood out sharply against the tan and rust-coloured soil, but they didn't seem to care. They were sure that there was no one to see or stop them as they entered the cluster of buildings where Professor Bartok conducted his research. They headed toward the largest building, greed hastening their steps.

xxxxxxxxxx

Mary Jane sighed with relief as the buildings of the compound finally came into sight. She had walked for several miles along the road as Skeeter had directed her. She wished mightily that she had been able to find a ride, but the risk of being seen leaving town had been too great to wait long enough to borrow a horse or a wagon. So she went on foot, glad that she had managed to keep in good physical condition after all these years of working at a desk. Her feet hurt a little from the borrowed shoes, but she could never have come so far in her city-shoes.

She limped up to the fence that surrounded the buildings, leaning against it to ease the stitch in her side. She didn't notice the wire that ran along the wooden rail. After she caught her breath, she climbed over the fence and walked toward the nearest building, a large barn. The door was open a little, and she could hear noises. Making as little noise as possible herself, she crept up to the door to looked inside.

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Ernest Pratt watched the Professor and Ramos lift off in the balloon, waving at them with a jaunty hand. He had become more receptive to the idea of participating in this experiment after Bartok had informed him that his job would be to remain on the ground. Janos and Ramos were going up in the balloon to send down one of the grain-dummies with one of the prototype parasols for a high-altitude test. Ernest would then take the land rover and track the dummy's fall, so that the Professor could collect data by examining the landing site.

He took his time putting on his leather cap and goggles, and then paused beside the table that was still loaded with packs of folded parasols. On a whim, he slipped on the harness again, careful not to pull the release lever. It whole package was light and fit perfectly across his broad shoulders. In his mind, he replayed the scene that he was writing when the idea of the descent parasol came to him. Then he recalled the circumstances that inspired that idea, and he smiled broadly. He must try to get back to town tonight, and see if Henrietta would be partial to a little more research...

He was fumbling with the buckles to remove the harness when a loud buzz sounded behind him. Bartok's parameter-defense monitor board was blinking lewdly, showing that the circuit that surrounded the compound had been disturbed. Pratt frowned at the board.

There was a moose that frequently blundered through the Professor's fences in order to graze on the fresh green grass beneath the Rain Tower. Pratt tapped on the monitor to see if it was broken, then he headed toward the door to see if the moose had indeed come back.

His way out of the lab was barred by the two men in dirty clothes who had just come inside. They stood and stared at each other, surprised, for a full minute before both of the strange men produced guns and pointed them at Pratt.

Pratt displayed his palms immediately. He had never seen either of these men before, but he could tell that they weren't selling bibles. "Can't we talk about this without the guns, fellas?"

The taller of the two men waved his pistol in Pratt's face. "Why ain't you up there in that flyin' thingum, too? We saw y'all take off just a while ago."

Pratt winced. He hated to hear the English language mutilated, but he doubted very much that grammatical correction would be of benefit to this man... or contribute to Pratt's own prolonged health. "I forgot something and had to come back," he offered, indicating the harness.

"Keep an eye on him, Jenk. He might have some of those fancy do-hickies like he writes about in them books of his."

Pratt's eyebrow rose. "You've read my books?"

"Naw... I don' read. I heard the stories, though. Seen your likeness on the covers. You're that Legend fellow, ain't ya?"

Pratt gazed down the gun barrel, trying to appear unconcerned. "When the need arises," he answered evasively.

"Wylie... if he came back, the others'll be back, too. We got to get out of here!"

"Grab something! I don't want to waste this chance! Come on, Legend! You're coming with us."

"I don't think that Edison will pay any gold for me... Wylie, was it?"

"You're coming with us so that your friends don't get any funny ideas about stopping us. That book looks like it has lots of important science stuff in it," Wylie grabbed a thick book off of the nearest shelf, which Pratt could clearly see was labeled 'Madam Dutch's Camp Cookbook', and shoved Pratt toward the door. His partner Jenk tried to pick up one of the Professor's machines, but it was so heavy he succeeded only in straining his back. He set off behind them with one hand holding his aching back.

And they all ran into a dusty boy in a floppy hat, who had been peeking through the half-open door.

The boy had frozen when they appeared. A single look of recognition passed between the lad's wide hazel eyes and Pratt, a mere second's worth of time. The boy turned around as if to run away. Jenk grabbed his arm and stopped him.

"Who's the kid, Legend?"

"He's just a boy that Bartok hired to help around the compound. Let him go... he's no threat to you."

"Well, now he's coming along with us. Give us any trouble, Legend, and the kid gets the first slug."

Pratt felt a flutter of panic in his heart. This was going very wrong. He stepped forward and took hold of the 'boy' so that Jenk would release him. They began walking out of the compound in the direction their new friends pushed them.

The balloon was so high up that Pratt was sure that Bartok couldn't have noticed them. His mind was racing, trying to figure a way out of this that would not put Miss Plain at risk... and what was she doing out here, dressed in Skeeter's clothes?


	4. Act 4 The Gravity of the Situation

**Act Four,The Gravity of the Situation**

"So, you want to explain to me what it is you're doing out here?" Ernest Pratt asked, grasping Mary Jane by the elbow as they were marched out into the plains. Wylie and Jenk-- the up-and-coming industrial spies-- were trailing behind them by a few paces, guns out and eyes everywhere.

Mary Jane had never been in such a situation before, and she was scared. She was dressed like a boy and walking next to a man who seemed anything but a legendary hero, obviously as scared as she was; they were both unarmed and at the mercy of two cold-hearted bandits. All her troubles with Gutridge seemed quite insignificant now. She wished in her heart that Pratt really was Nicodemus Legend and that he might save her, but that wish seemed more impossible now than ever.

Jenk and Wylie were paying no attention to what their two prisoners were saying, looking over their shoulders for any pursuit and trying to remember where they had hidden their horses.

"It doesn't seem important now," she answered, fear in her voice. Pratt put his arm around her to steady her. She leaned into him, grateful for the support. "I wanted to ask your help. I want to get away from Sir Franklin."

"Well, I can't say I don't understand why anyone would want to get away from him," Pratt said, softening his sarcasm with a dimpled grin, "but what can I do? He's **your** uncle."

"No, he isn't. I am not his niece, and he is not Sir Franklin Gutridge. His name is Cuthbert Dambridge, and he doesn't write his own books. I write them."

Pratt nearly missed his footing in surprise, earning him a jab in the back from Jenk's pistol. He grimaced and hurried forward, shielding Mary Jane from their attention.

"You wrote them? But how... Sir Franklin had been publishing books for thirty years or more."

Mary Jane snorted in derision. "He had paid others to write his books for him before he found me. He is always threatening to let me go and find a new 'research assistant', but he knows he'll never find anyone as good as I..." Mary Jane paused as she realized that she was speaking with arrogance. "Well... he was bluffing, anyway. I wish he would find another writer. I am sick of writing books so that someone else can claim the credit."

Then suddenly she was furious, all her fear forgotten. She stopped and turned toward Pratt, shouting, "And I am especially sick of seeing the work of my hands published for Gutridge, when the very same books were rejected by the same publisher, just because he is a man and I am a wo--" she cut herself off, eyes darting toward Wylie and Jenk, who had halted in confusion when she had begun shouting. She glanced down at herself, still clad in baggy trousers and a button-down shirt. Pulling down the brim of her hat, she weakly added, "Just because I am a boy."

Wylie waved his gun at them. "Get on, there! And stop shouting. There's no one around to help you anyway."

Mary Jane and Pratt marched on in silence for a while. Mary Jane was flushed from anger and humiliation, and Pratt was stunned to learn that the historian that he admired was a lovely young woman. It seemed that he would have to rewrite some prejudices of his own.

Out of the corner of her eye, Mary Jane saw that Pratt was grinning. "What is it?" she asked in a curt whisper. "What about this situation can you possible find to smile about?"

"Sir Franklin is a fraud." Pratt's grin became broader. "Oooh, what I'm gonna **do** when I get back to Sheridan..."

"We have to get out of this mess first," she reminded him. She looked at him again, and found her own mouth curving upward. His smile was so very infectious.

They walked on until they came to a place where the land dipped into a trough, overgrown with trees and long grasses.

"I know'd we left the horses around here somewhere..."

"What are we goin' do with them? We can't just let 'em go!"

"O' course not! You two... stop there!" Wylie commanded sternly.

Pratt and Mary Jane halted, their backs still to their captors. The walls of the trough rose steeply to either side of them, leaving no path of escape except straight ahead. Pratt looked around wildly, hoping to see something that he could use to distract or disable Wylie and Jenk long enough for Mary Jane and him to get away, but he saw nothing but scrub brush and reddish dirt.

A cloud passed over the face of the sun, darkening the narrow world, and there came a sound like heavy rain drops falling. _"Great,"_ thought Ernest, shifting his shoulders inside the biting straps of the harness he still wore _"Just when you think things can't get worse, it starts raining."_

But as the drops continued to fall, Pratt noticed that they weren't getting wet. He held out his hand and several pieces of grain fell upon his palm.

Resisting a mighty urge to look up, Pratt turned slowly and brought up his hands. Jenk and Wylie aimed their pistols at him. Above them, Pratt saw the huge globe of the balloon hovering right overhead. The propeller was beating rapidly, trying to maintain a position against the strong wind blowing off of the prairie. Out of the corner of his eye Pratt saw all this, as well as the large bundle that Ramos was struggling to lift over the edge of the balloon basket. He heard Mary Jane's soft gasp from behind him.

"Hey, fellas!" Pratt said, hoping his voice would drown out other distractions. "You can't just kill us, you know. You haven't done anything but steal a book. If you shoot, that's murder, and they'll never stop looking for you. Do you really want that kind of attention?"

"Killing Nicodemus Legend will make us famous," Wylie said, waving his gun for emphasis. "No one will dare come after us!"

"Yes, but if you kill me, who will tell of your exploits? How will your story reach the thirsty ears of the public if you shoot the man who writes the books?"

Wylie and Jenk looked at each other in confusion. "Mebbe we can hold off shootin' him until he writes it all down?" Jenk offered.

Wylie frowned at his partner, then looked at Pratt. "How long will that take?"

Pratt looked between them, at a loss of words in the specter of their monumental stupidity. He was saved of having to make an answer, however, when a large man-shaped bag of grain dropped from the sky and landed on both gunmen, knocking them to the ground and sending their weapons flying. There came from the heap of burst burlap, spilled grain, and bad-guys the sound of a **pop**, and Ernest leaped backward to avoid being draped in the tardy deployment of the silk canopy of the descent parasol.

Overhead, Janos Bartok and Ramos waved heartily from the balloon basket. Pratt gave them a double thumbs-up. Bartok pointed toward the place that they intended to land. Pratt waved to show he understood, then borrowed Jenk's knife to cut cords from the parasol with which to tie their ex-abductors hand and foot.

Mary Jane seated herself on a tussock, taking off her hat and wiping her face with shaking hands. Pratt turned to her in concern.

"Are you all right, miss?"

Mary Jane laughed weakly. "This is why I write histories... I just can't handle contemporary excitement."

Pratt gave her his winningest smile. "Just another page in the life of Nicodemus Legend! Why write about history when you can_**live**_ it?"


	5. Act 5 The Silver King Shuffle

**Act Five, The Silver King Shuffle**

There was a long patient silence in the Bartok Research Institute Laboratory after Mary Jane had finished telling her full story. Ramos and Janos had sat listening closely as she spoke, while Ernest paced and kept an eye on their two erstwhile guests.

Jenk and Wylie against one of the iron pillars in the lab. Each had a bulky collar set around their ankles, which Prof. Bartok referred to as 'mobility inhibitors'. They had tried to run away once, only to be dragged back by their feet when Bartok flipped a switch on his control board. Now they sat still, occasionally casting sullen looks toward the doorway.

Mary Jane sat near the fire, staring into her teacup. Ramos, with his usual ubiquitousness, deftly removed the china from her numbed fingers and refilled it and handed it back to her. She looked up at him with a grateful smile.

Janos Bartok was tapping his chin, pondering. "I wonder if Mr. Allen would be so swift to dismiss your work if he knew that it was you who actually wrote Sir Franklin history books?"

Mary Jane shook her head and set her cup down. She crossed her arms over her chest as she rubbed her shoulders. "It doesn't matter, Professor Bartok. I don't care about the books anymore. I just want to get away from Gutridge. He won't let me out of my contract. The best I can hope for is to run away and hope he never finds me."

"I'm sorry that you have had to endure such abuse, my dear," Janos said softly and honestly, "But it has been my experience that running away from problems does not solve them." The Hungarian scientist's eyes lifted briefly to meet Ernest's, then he looked at the girl again and gave her an encouraging smile. "Besides, I suspect that getting free of your contract will not be as difficult as you think."

"What makes you think that?" Mary Jane gulped, trying to keep back the tears she had managed to control while she had told them her story. She was still shivering, despite the heat from the furnace.

"That would be the professor's famed clairvoyance kicking in," said Ernest with a touch of fond sarcasm. He found a quilted blanket and wrapped it around the lady's trembling shoulders. "We'll think of something, Mary Jane. Don't be afraid."

"I came out here to ask you for help... I know you aren't really Nicodemus Legend, but I had hoped..."

"Ah, my dear lady," Ernest said brightly, standing up to give her a gallant bow, "I _am_ Nicodemus Legend, or rather **we** are..." Ernest clapped a hand on Bartok's shoulder. "Between us we should be able to figure something out. The way I see it, the best thing to do would be to get you out from under Gutridge's heel. Do you have a copy of the contract document?"

"It's back at the hotel, among Sir Franklin's papers. It's in a locked strongbox. I haven't a key..."

Pratt and Bartok smiled slyly at each other. "That won't be a problem, miss..."

"We'll just go and borrow it for a while. I'm sure Sir Franklin won't mind..." said Janos.

"Especially if he doesn't know about it!" added Ernest.

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Gutridge smoothed the fabric of his waistcoat over his copious midsection, adjusting his fob chain fastidiously. The watch read five minutes after 8. Gutridge sighed and turned his head, calling out over his shoulder, "Mary Jane! We are late for dinner! Aren't you ready yet?" No answer came back, so he crossed the room and pounded on the door with his fist. "Come on! You've spent all of the day in that room. Come out this instant, or I shall have the landlord force the door open!" He rattled the knob for emphasis.

Gutridge had discovered the door between their suites closed and locked when he had returned from breakfast. He figured that the woman needed some time to cry herself out, so he had left her alone. He didn't enjoy listening to her sniveling. But she needed to come out now; they had an appointment with E. C. Allen's public relations man.

"Come out this instant! It is time to meet Mr. Farber for dinner. Mary Jane!"

"Go away! I'm not hungry," a high-pitched voice called out.

"Fine! Stay in there and starve!" grumbled Gutridge, and he proceeded downstairs alone.

Inside Mary Jane's suite, Skeeter puffed a sigh of pure relief.

xxxxxxxxxx

The sky was growing dark outside at last; Mary Jane had been gone for hours. There was no way on Earth that he would go outside in daylight dressed like this! There wasn't a stitch of clothing in the room that wasn't dripping with lace or embroidery, and if he was lost in the desert and three-days dead he wouldn't be caught in any of them!

He had finally found a plain dressing gown in the wardrobe that at least kept him from freezing, but he couldn't bring himself to step outside where he might be seen. Once night fell, he planned to slip out in the shadows of the verandah and let himself into Mr. Legend's room, where he could at least borrow clothing that didn't threaten his masculinity.

Skeeter padded in his sock-feet back to the window, peeking out for the hundredth time to see if the girl might be coming back. He saw only the usual dusty cowhands and townsfolk, moseying around as the businesses closed for the night and the nightlife stirred in anticipation of sunset. Just a few more minutes...

Skeeter turned and caught a glimpse of himself in the large vanity mirror set in the wall. Idly, he regarded his reflection, turning this way and that with a bemused expression on his face.

A noise outside the window sent him scurrying behind the dressing-screen. Through the glass he could see figures creeping past, though it was now too dark to see who they might be. Skeeter grabbed a bonnet and jammed it over his wild hair, then crouched down and prayed.

xxxxxxxxxx

"Not this room. It's on the other corner."

"I _know_ which room is his... and **quit** stepping on my heels!"

"Shhh!"

"And don't 'shhh' me! Nobody'll hear us... they've all gone down to dinner. Now stay close and keep quiet-- ouch! Dammit, Stan! Not on my heels!"

"Sorry, Bucky."

The two men crouched and ran along the night-shrouded balcony, pausing beside the darkened windows of corner suite. The man called Bucky reached into his vest, extracting a long, thin wire, which he used to unfasten the window catch. Carefully, he opened the tall window and slipped inside, his companion stumbling behind him.

"Will you be careful?" he hissed, catching Stan before he could fall over a table. "You'll have everyone in the hotel down on us!"

"Sorry, Bucky! I'm just not used to all this creeping around. I'd much rather be robbing a bank... it's a lot less work!"

"Well, thanks to those idiots Jenk and Wylie, we ain't going to be robbing any banks soon! We gotta make a living in other ways, 'til the ink fades off them wanted posters. And once we catch up with those two, I'll make 'em sorry they ever crossed Lucky Buck Malone!" Buck prowled around the darkened room, making sure that they were alone. "Legend's not here. Let's find what we came for and skee-daddle. We ain't gettin' paid by the hour."

"What are we lookin' for, Bucky?"

"Papers, Stan. Look for a stack of papers with writin' on 'em." Not for the first time, Buck cursed his fortune that got him stuck with the most dim-witted of his gang. Stan had been a good bag-man, but during the last heist he had been standing a little too close to the charge when the bank-vault was blown up. The boy had never quite been the same since. "Look, just stand here and listen at the door. Let me know if you hear anyone coming, okay?"

"Okay, Bucky."

Buck opened a roll-top desk and began to shuffle through the contents.

"Bucky?"

"Yeah? You hear someone coming?"

"Naw. Why are we lookin' for papers?"

"'Cause the fat man is payin' us to get 'em! This Legend fella is a famous writer or something."

"Why does he want them?"

"I dunno, Stan. Maybe he is keen on dime novels and he doesn't want to wait to read 'em. Now shut yer yap and watch the door!"

"Okay, Bucky."

Outside the window, a coil of rope suddenly descended to the balcony. Two figures, one tall and broad-shouldered, the other of slighter build, shimmied down the knotted cord to land with a soft thud on the boards. The smaller of the two shadows tightly bound the rope to the rail and then followed the other to the far end of the verandah, coincidentally on the opposite side of the building as our friends Buck and Stan had made their nocturnal intrusion.

xxxxxxxxxx

No mere wire was worthy of the Bartok Institute Covert Insertion Team; Janos had prepared an elaborate device that would use small currents of electricity to unlock the window, which was rendered useless as the sash turned out not to be latched, but was indeed wide open. Janos sighed with disappointment, then gestured for Ramos to proceed him.

"Be careful, Ramos," said Janos softly. "I realize that you are new to this, but Ernest and I have done this many times. Just move as quietly as possible and..."

"Professor, with all due respect," Ramos's whisper was barely louder than a breath, "I do have _some_ experience in this kind of thing."

"Don't tell me they had a class on breaking and entering at Harvard?" muttered Janos, winning him a grin from his assistant.

"Not hardly."

"You'll have to tell me more about this later." Conversation abated, they crept into the room and began their search. Using the Bartok Arctic Mist with a precision focused spray, they quickly broke the lock and removed the document.

Both men leaned over the papers, reading by the faint light of the shielded lantern they carried, so both were startled when the suite door opened and a voice called out:

"Professor Bartok?"

Bartok and Ramos both jumped in alarm. Skeeter stood there, dressed in a lacey housecoat and a straw bonnet. "Skeeter? What on earth are you doing wearing... that?"

"My clothes were kidnapped," Skeeter responded dryly. He hitched the dressing gown higher under his armpits and said, "Tell me... do you think this colour makes me look fat?"

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Whereas Ernest's skills would not have gone unwasted with his colleagues, he was busy at another task. Few had opportunity to hone to perfection the skill of smuggling women into a hotel room without being seen; Ernest Pratt was one of those few. Years of practice paid off, and soon he was softly closing the door between them and the empty hallway.

Unfortunately, Ernest's rooms were not empty. Ernest turned at Mary Jane's gasp, and found the two intruders standing with guns drawn.

"Oops! Sorry... wrong room!" Ernest moved to open the door again, but Stan prodded him with the barrel of his gun, forcing him further into the room.

"Not so fast, mister. Git over there next to your lady-friend."

"Well, well, Stan," commented the other man as he recognized Ernest from the cover of the dime-novel he had found. "If it isn't Mr. Nicodemus Legend himself. This must be my lucky night."

"Yeah, you're lucky, Bucky." Stan snickered at the joke, but Ernest and Mary Jane just stared at them. Ernest drew Mary Jane to his side, slowly backing them both away from the men and closer to his writing desk. Buck and Stan followed, still leveling their guns menacingly.

"Look, fellas, whatever you're after, just take it. I don't carry a lot of cash..."

"We ain't here for cash, Mr. Legend," Buck said, coming closer. He stood so that he was toe-to-toe with Ernest, his gun cocked but pointed upward. "Where did you hide the papers?"

Mindful of what his associates were currently trying to steal, Ernest put on his best poker-face. "What papers?"

"You're a writer, ain't ya? Where's the book yer writing?"

Ernest looked at him blankly, then as it dawned on him what they meant, he drew a deep breath. Behind his back, he had worked open a drawer and got his hand on one of the professor's Fulminators. He palmed the bulky device and side-stepped to keep it out of view. "Oh... _those_ papers! Why, they're right here in my desk... let me get them for you..."

"Not so fast, Legend," warned Buck, waving the dangerous pistol. He smashed the barrel into a glazed porcelain vase standing upon a wall-table. Ernest froze and let him move forward. "I already looked in there... I didn't see no papers."

"Oh, well, then they must be right here." When Buck turned to look at Ernest, he brought his hand around and thumbed the button on the Fulminator. Arcs of blue lightning leapt out and danced over the bandit. He yelled and dropped his gun.

The pistol hit the carpet butt-first, discharging into the air. Mary Jane screamed and Ernest would have, but Stan had tackled him when he saw what appeared to be Legend drawing down on his friend Buck. The Fulminator was knocked out of Ernest's hand and it slid across the room and under the bed.

"Wha'cha do to Bucky, mister?" He may have been slow-minded, but Stan was as strong as a young bull, and he closed both hands around Ernest's throat. Ernest could do nothing but try vainly to pry Stan's fingers away, his face darkening as he fought for air.

Frightened but fierce, Mary Jane picked up a large vase from the desk and broke it over Stan's head. He slithered to the floor, leaving Ernest gulping greedily for air. She grabbed his arm and helped him to his feet.

The door burst open then, spilling the crowd of Bartok, Ramos, and Skeeter into the room. They had heard the gunshot and came running, Skeeter stumbling a little as he trod on the hem of the long housecoat he still wore. In his hand, Bartok held the document that he had taken from Gutridge's strongbox.

Buck recovered himself and his pistol as they stood staring at the disarray of Ernest's room. Before anyone could utter a word, he leaned forward and tugged the papers out of Bartok's hands. "I'll just take that, mister." He shoved the folded papers into his belt, then grabbed a handful of Stan's shirt. With the pistol he waved Bartok, Ramos, and Skeeter further into the room, then propelled Stan out of the door, backing out himself to keep them covered.

Watching them leave, Bartok sighed. "Well, there goes a fine night's work! At least I got a chance to read the thing before we lost it."

Ernest coughed, then managed to whisper out, "At least we're all still alive. Thanks for coming in right then. We were running out of ideas... and vases."


	6. Act 6 Puzzlements and Predicaments

**Act Six, Puzzlements and Predicaments **

Mary Jane hovered in the background as Professor Bartok examined the injury that had been done to Ernest's neck. Janos frowned and squinted through his magnifying glasses until Ernest scowled at him. They were still gathered in Ernest's rooms at the Silver King, along with Ramos and Skeeter, who had quickly changed out of Mary Jane's housecoat and into a borrowed pair of breeches and shirt.

Janos snapped his lenses up and stood up. "Well, I can see no serious damage, Ernest, but you are going to have some rather vivid bruises for a few days. You're lucky, you know. He could have crushed your windpipe."

Ernest coughed slightly, then said in a raspy whisper, "Lucky me."

Mary Jane came forward, laying her small hand on his shoulder. "I'm so sorry, Mr. Pratt. It's my fault that you were hurt."

"No--cough-- 's **not**," Ernest said, shaking his head sharply.

"Stop trying to talk," Janos chastised his friend. "But Ernest is correct, Miss Plain; you are not to blame for this incident. I believe that the subject of your contract and this attack were entirely unrelated. There is something very fishy going on here. It requires a good deal closer study. I suggest we retire to the Compound and do some research. Ramos." Bartok's assistant was already moving, slipping quietly out of the room. "Miss Plain, I think it best if you were to stay here..."

"S-stay...?" Mary Jane was clearly frightened of the prospect of being alone.

"You will be safe; Sir Franklin has no reason to suspect you. Endure, dear lady, for a little while longer. And be brave, for I foresee that you will play a very important role in our plan. I am clairvoyant, you know." Bartok took Mary Jane's hand and gently kissed the back of her fingers. "Now I think we had best get you back into your room before your missed." Ramos had returned, having made sure that Mary Jane's rooms were safe. He gave her a short bow and escorted her to her door.

"Skeeter." Ernest's voice crackled like a crumpled sheet of paper. The young man turned toward him. Ernest held up a silvery coin. "You keep an eye on her. Let us know if anything happens."

"Yes, Mr. Legend." He caught the coin that Pratt tossed him, then fingered it thoughtfully. "You couldn't spare another two bits, could you? I'm thinking of picking up one of these cotton gowns for myself. I like the breezy air-flow..."

"Out."

"... Yessir."

xxxxxxxxxx

Milton Farber was walking the boards in the deepening Colorado twilight, taking the air after dinner with Sir Franklin Gutridge. Normally, Farber would not step outside of his hotel rooms after dark, but after hours of stuffy conversation and cigar smoke, he felt the need for cleaner air, even if that air was full of dust and the aroma of cattle.

Farber was a man of the city, but he liked to think of himself as a bit of a pioneer as well. He boldly went out on the assignments that E.C. Allen required of him, be it in Boston or all the way out to the wild streets of San Francisco, and any cow-ridden and tumbleweed-infested trading post in between. Farber was used to handling editors, agents, accountants, lawyers, lawmen, gunslingers, writers-- all manner of lowlifes. His employer valued him for his ability to obtain results no matter how difficult the situation. He believed that he was prepared for any obstacle the frontier could place before him.

But he had met his match with Franklin Gutridge.

'Sir' Franklin, he muttered bitterly. The man's pretentiousness was offensive. A writer of books could name or title himself whatever he could copyright as his own, but that didn't mean that Farber had to believe he had earned that title.

Farber looked down the main street of Sheridan, toward the horizon where lightning bolts usually shot upward into the sky. Bartok's rain tower was silent tonight. Grimly, Farber wished that Pratt's dime novel hero really were real. He could use a rescue from this boorish client. With a resolved sigh, he turned to go back into the hotel dining room.

At the table he had shared with Sir Franklin, Farber saw two strange men in close conversation with Gutridge. As he approached, they departed swiftly. Gutridge was holding a sheaf of papers, which he quickly folded and placed inside his vest.

"Won't your niece be joining us, Sir Franklin?" Farber asked politely.

Gutridge grunted, dabbing his mouth with a napkin. "She was over-tired from the journey. I don't expect her to..."

"Am I too late for dinner?" Mary Jane approached the table, dressed and composed. Farber rose to assist her to her chair. Franklin stared. She seemed taller somehow; her face was glowing, her cheeks full of colour and her eyes sparkling. She placed a gloved hand on Farber's extended arm. "Please forgive me."

"There's nothing to forgive, miss," Farber said gallantly. "Waiting is it's own reward to see loveliness such as yours."

"Oh, Mr. Farber... you're just saying that!" Mary Jane said.

"_Of course_ he's 'just saying that'! Sit down and stop fluttering! It's unbecoming of a girl of your class."

Earlier this day she might have paled and stammered after such cruel words, but after a few hours with Ernest Pratt and his friends, Mary Jane Plane had found a strength within herself she hadn't known she possessed. She held her head high and ignored her 'uncle'. She seated herself gracefully while Farber beckoned to the serving woman to bring food for the lady.

Gutridge grumbled as pushed himself away from the table. "I have neither the time nor the desire to sit and watch you eat, girl. I'm going. Farber, if you'd care to continue our conversation..."

"I'll stay and keep the lady company, Sir Franklin." Farber welcomed the excuse to escape another of Gutridge's arrogant monologues.

"Very well," Sir Franklin growled.

Farber smiled at Mary Jane and poured her a glass of wine. "I suddenly feel my appetite returning."

xxxxxxxxxx

After a quick ride back to the Bartok Compound, there was a debate going on in the laboratory. Ramos checked their prisoners as Ernest and Janos helped them selves to a stimulating drink. Talking over the aspects of their strange day, they soon fell into a depressed state. The situation seemed quite hopeless, and both Ernest and Janos were at wit's-end to figure a solution.

"If she got married, wouldn't that get her out of her contract?" Ramos suggested as he poured more coffee for Janos. Ernest refused a refill, opting instead for a drink from his pocket flask.

Janos shook his head in answer to his assistant. "I remember reading a clause that forbids entering into any other contracts, including matrimony."

Ernest was appalled. "That's just not right."

"Indeed. There are many things about this contract that directly contradicts basic human rights. I am surprised that Mr. Allen permits Gutridge to maintain this contract."

"I have a feeling he doesn't even know about it. I think we should send him a wire and illuminate him about his precious history-book writer 'Sir' Slave-driver Franklin. In the meanwhile, how do we get Mary Jane away from that monster?"

"We could fake her death, like we did for Mr. Hickock."

"Do you think we have a body-bullet barricade in her size?" Pratt said with heavy sarcasm. "I think we should be able to help her without shooting her!"

"Just an idea..."

"It seems obvious that Sir Franklin has other interests than his books," Ramos said. "He has tried to steal research from you, professor, and tried to steal the newest Legend manuscript. These things alone should warrant him for arrest, if we can connect him to his agents."

"And he were to be bound by law, the contract will be broken automatically," Janos said, "but he failed to steal anything. These two criminals have merely made the attempt. Even if we could connect them to Sir Franklin..."

"We'd need hard proof." Ernest turned his flask over and gave it a shake. It was empty. Ernest stuck out his lip in a pout. "Even if we could get Wiley and Jenk to confess, I doubt that their word alone would be enough if Gutridge denies that he hired them."

"Yes, and the two rascals in town got away completely. What did they call each other?"

"Bucky Malone." Ernest rubbed his throat, remembering the incident. "And his buddy Stan."

Janos was tapping his lower lip thoughtfully. "Four new criminal in one day, showing up at roughly the same time as our unwelcome friend Sir Franklin... this cannot be a coincidence.


	7. Act 7 Chrysalis and Catharsis

**  
Act Seven, Chrysalis and Catharsis**

Gutridge had planned to examine the papers that Bucky Malone had delivered to him the evening before, but after that disagreeable display by Mary Jane he had gone straight to his bed, disgruntled and attacked by indigestion, and had not so much as glanced at the sheets.

Now, the next morning, he had arrived in the dining room, folded papers clutched in his meaty hand, to find a meal laid out and waiting, with Ernest Pratt himself sitting at the table. When he saw Gutridge at the foot of the stairs, he rose to greet him with a loud, cheerful, "Good morning, Sir Franklin!"

Gutridge grunted. All the other tables were occupied or he might have made a scene of refusing to sit with the man. He was too hungry to forgo breakfast altogether. So he sat down, believing he could intimidate Pratt into leaving quickly. "It's rather early in the day for you to be up and abroad, isn't it, Pratt? I figured that you would still be belly-down in the gutter behind the saloon until at least seven-thirty."

Pratt laughed in a good-natured way. "Actually, I haven't made it as far as the gutter yet. Been up all night. May I...?" Pratt proceeded to pour coffee into Sir Franklin's cup and then into his own. He paused over the third setting. "Will your niece be joining us this morning?"

Gutridge gave another grunt for an answer. He stirred a vast amount of sugar into the coffee before raising it to his lips. He stopped before drinking, suddenly suspicious. Pratt had set his cup in front of himself untouched. "What are you doing here, Pratt?" Gutridge asked bluntly. "I thought I made it perfectly clear that I had no inclination to socialize with the likes of a dime-novel writer."

"Oh, you did make that abundantly clear, Sir Franklin," Pratt said, leaning forward to light the candle in the middle of the elaborate centerpiece. "But as long as your here, I thought that I might impose on you for your valuable opinion. E. C. Allen expects my newest manuscript, but I wanted you to read it through first. Maybe give me a few tips?" he added hopefully.

Gutridge was teetering between a crushing desire to embarrass Pratt and the weight of his own monstrous ego. "Well... I don't normally waste my time with such nonsense, but as a favor to Allen..."

"I really appreciate this, Sir Franklin!" Ernest fairly gushed with gratitude. Gutridge felt a touch of embarrassment on behalf of the man. He was acting like a fool, and everyone in the dining room was staring at them.

"Why don't you bring the papers to my room later this morning," Gutridge said, hoping to get rid of the man so he could enjoy his breakfast. He forgot to be suspicious and drank his coffee, his appetite getting the better of his paranoia. He began dishing food onto his plate. It occurred to him then that Pratt must not realize that his manuscript had been stolen. A sly smile cut his round face as he imagined the writer's frustration when he discovered that the papers were missing. "Yes, do bring them by later," he said again.

"I have the papers right here, Sir Franklin," announced Pratt, pulling a thick, folded sheaf from his pocket. "Like I said, I was up all night, writing. This book is going to be the best one ever! Much, much better than the one I just finished for Mr. Allen."

Gutridge choked on his coffee. "You... wrote another one? _Already?_"

Pratt nodded as if accepting a great compliment. "When the Muse speaks, we cannot but listen. How 'bout I read over the highlights while you eat breakfast? Then you can give me some pointers for the part where I am stuck." Without waiting for an answer, Pratt launched into the story. Gutridge's mouth was still open to object, but his words when unheard.

"The story is about a noble, honorable man-- who is a writer like your self-- and he has a lovely daughter that travels with him to the wilds of the West. A disreputable man tries to lure the noble man's daughter away with false promises, finally kidnapping her and stealing the man's new book. The noble man turns to Legend for help. Now, the problem I have is this: **how** should Legend rescue the girl and get the book away from the bad guy?"

Gutridge thought he was going to lose his appetite when Pratt began to outline the story. He could feel his face reddening and sought to hide behind his coffee cup. Then when he realized how stupid Pratt was, so oblivious and ignorant, he laughed loudly and began shoveling food into his mouth.

Ernest looked up and smiled. To Gutridge, it may have appeared that Pratt was flattered and foolish, but the real reason that he was smiling was because Mary Jane had just descended the stairs behind Gutridge. The sheaf of papers slipped out of Ernest's numbed fingers and fanned out on the floor.

The change that had come over Mary Jane was tangible. Her face was aglow, full of healthy color, complimented by her robin-red overdress. A blouse and underskirt of light green satin brought out her hazel eyes, which were sparkling and clear. Pratt wasn't even aware that he had stood up as she floated gracefully to the table, escorted by Skeeter. He released the lady's arm, nodded discreetly to Pratt, and made his way into the kitchen.

Pratt took her hand and dropped a kiss on her fingers. Gutridge didn't even look up from his meal. "It's about time you brought yourself down..." his voice dropped away when he finally raised his eyes and saw her. He choked again, groping for a glass of water.

Ernest thumped Gutridge on the back just as he took a drink. "Are you alright, Sir Franklin? Miss Plane, what a pleasure it is to see you again. May I say that you look absolutely radiant this morning?" All thoughts of intrigue faded from Ernest's mind as he looked upon the pretty lady.

"Thank you, Mr. Pratt. You _may_ say so." Mary Jane blushed modestly and allowed him to seat her. "I'm sorry that I interrupted you. Please go on with what you were saying."

Gutridge was still trying to clear his throat. Pratt happily gathered up the pile of papers he had dropped earlier. "I was just asking your uncle his advice on my new story." Gutridge coughed, and Ernest slapped him on the back again. "But as he has said before, fiction isn't really his area of expertise. Perhaps you could help me?"

As they were speaking, Ramos emerged from the kitchen, carrying a carafe of coffee. Bartok was with him, bearing a tray covered with cloth. They both stopped behind Gutridge, who was still incapable of speech.

"I overheard your reading to Sir Franklin as I was coming downstairs," Mary Jane prompted Ernest.

xxx

Mary Jane hoped that she was managing to hide how much she was terrified. Since the small hours of the morning, when Ernest Pratt and his friends had come scratching on her windowpane to tell her the plan, she had been terribly frightened and excited. One way or the other, by the end of the day she would be free of Sir Franklin Gutridge. She had carefully selected the best dress from her wardrobe and taken time to fix her hair. When she was done, she felt like she did before her first play in college, when she had understudied the leading lady and had been called for her first performance. She had found the strength then to face that crowd of strangers, and she called on that buried strength again now.

xxx

Outwardly, she maintained a gently detached, amused attitude. She nodded regally to Ramos, who hastened forward to serve her. "It sounds fascinating, Mr. Pratt. Please continue."

"You're too kind, Miss Plain. I was just wondering, what would be the best way for the hero of the story to rescue the lady and put the bad guy in his place?"

Gutridge had managed to quit choking, but was now staring stunned at Mary Jane; he had never seen her looking so fair, nor so confident. He settled back in confusion, wondering if there really had been something added to his coffee to make him hallucinate.

"Let me see if I understand correctly," Mary Jane said after taking a small sip from her cup. "The bad man has stolen Legend's latest unpublished manuscript and is holding the girl against her will... am I right?"

"That is essentially correct."

"Well, Legend must live up to his name! He must go up to the bad man and confront him, demand the return of his property and the freedom of the lady."

"Go right up to his face and confront him?" Pratt pulled a thin book from his pocket and began to take hasty notes. "But won't the bad guy just shoot him? Or worse… hurt the lady?"

"No, Mr. Pratt. Oh, he will _try_ to hurt them, but Legend will use his fantastic scientific inventions to stop the man, and with his cunning intellect he will trick him into turning over the book and confessing all of his crimes to the authorities. Of course, the bad man will put up a terrible fight, and Nicodemus might be injured, but he won't give up. Legend **never** gives up."

Gutridge was watching the two of them talk like a man watching a lawn-tennis match, and his face was changing colors like a salamander on a calico dress. When Pratt first outlined his story he had gone a bit pale, and then when Mary Jane had appeared he had flushed quite red. Now his face was darkening to a more dangerous shade, and finally he could sit quiet no more.

"This is rubbish!" Sir Franklin bellowed, throwing the full force of his anger at Pratt, hoping to cow him as he had in the saloon when they had first met. "You don't honestly think that you could get me...**ah-hem**, I mean... get the bad guy to confess what he had done in front of a room full of people just by walking up and confronting him? Delusional! Ridiculous! This is a waste of my time!"

Pratt merely sat, unmoved by Gutridge's outburst. "Ego notwithstanding, Sir Franklin, you are contractually bound to E. C. Allen, and he has sent you here to assist me. I would appreciate your input."

Gutridge swelled, his burning anger settling inside him like cold poison. "Really, Mr. Pratt? Very well, here's my input. Legend should confront the bad man and insist on the return of his property and the girl's freedom. But this time, the bad guy is too smart for him and he refuses to give Legend what he wants. He take the book and the girl and goes far away, and Legend has to live with the reality of failure." Gutridge stood up and threw down his napkin onto his unfinished breakfast. "**The End.** Come, Mary Jane! We have a stagecoach to catch."

"No."

Sir Franklin turned to her, the look on his face one of incredulous disbelief. "What did you say to me?" he rumbled, the purple hue returning to his cheeks and forehead.

Mary Jane elegantly sipped her coffee before saying quietly, "I said **'no'**. I'm not going with you."

"Mary Jane. You are my niece and you will do as I say."

"No, I am _not_ your niece and you are _not_ my uncle. I will no longer do anything you say."

Gutridge leaned toward her said, in a savage whisper, _"Am I to take it that you don't mean to hold up your end of the contract? Do you know the damage I can do to your future?"_

Mary Jane replied in a loud, clear voice that carried to every corner of the dinning hall. "You can't do anything to me that is worse than the way I have allowed you to treat me so far. I'm ending our association now and you can... well, you can take that contract and stick it in your... ear!"

Gutridge rocked back in his chair, nearly upsetting Janos Bartok, who was standing quietly behind him, holding a covered tray. Bartok deftly balanced the tray with the help of Ramos, who was close by.

Pratt gazed proudly at Mary Jane. He turned an insolent look at Gutridge, who was standing at the end of the table blustering like a gaffed fish. "Looks like the damsel is going to rescue herself. This could bode ill for fictional heroes... " He captured Mary Jane's hand and gave her fingers another chaste kiss. "...But it sounds just fine to me."

"This is an outrage. How dare you do this to me, after everything I've done for you, taking you under my wing... protecting you... well! No more! You're on your own from now on, young lady. And don't come crawling back to me when the world doesn't turn out to be like one of Mr. Pratt's fairy tales! We are **through!**" When his browbeating failed to ruffle Mary Jane's newfound self-confidence, he narrowed his eyes and turned his venomous gaze upon Pratt. "And you, sitting there feeling so full of yourself... well, **this** is what I think of your stupid dime novels..." He shoved his hand inside his coat and came out with the folded papers that Bucky Malone had given him. He dipped the corner of the sheets into the bright flame of the candle.

"This will be one less waste of ink and paper! Say goodbye to your book, Mr. Legend!" The fire greedily devoured the dry papers, and Gutridge dropped the flaming mess onto the empty plate in front of Pratt.


	8. Act 8 Making History plus an Epilogue

**Act eight, Making History**

As the flames consumed the papers, Ernest leaned back to avoid being singed by the heat. He glanced around the table, seeing Mary Jane's horrified expression and Sir Franklin's smug one. "Did either of you order flambé?" He blithely fished in one pocket and came out with a cigar. "You don't mind if I smoke, do you?" he asked. He lifted one curling page to light his cigar, and then dropped the paper back on the blackening plate.

Ramos came forward calmly and draped a cloth over the plate, effectively smothering the fire but not before there was nothing left but ashes. "A complete loss, I'm afraid. These pages are utterly destroyed."

"That's right," proclaimed Sir Franklin. "And no great loss to the literary world **this**."

Ernest smiled at Mary Jane. "It's time for your line, my dear," he prompted her gently.

Mary Jane stared at him. How could he be so calm when his new book lay in ashes on a plate before them? Belatedly, she remembered the words that he had made her memorize early that morning. "I-- I will take my leave of you now, Sir Franklin." The words came out hollow and tremulous, but having spoken them her uncertainty was replaced by a wondrous calm. She remembered a phrase that she had once overheard, which she now repeated with relish, "Don't let the swingin' door hit you on your way out!"

Sir Franklin grabbed her arm cruelly. "We have a _contract_," he hissed, "and as long as that document exists, you belong to me!"

Mary Jane twisted out of his grasp. "Not any more!" she said, defiantly.

"Exactly true," Bartok announced loudly. He was standing directly behind Sir Franklin, and he words startled him. "You see, Sir Franklin, things here aren't really what they appear to be."

"That's right," injected Ernest Pratt. "First of all, you are not Sir Franklin at all. Your name is Cutbert Dambridge-- and Miss Plane is not your niece.

Gutridge scrambled for his scattered wits. "You're a fine one to talk about names, Pratt... masquerading as a western hero... how many people around here know you as Nicodemus Legend?"

"I make no secret that my name is Ernest Pratt," Ernest said mildly.

"Secondly," Bartok interposed, lowering his tray in front of Gutridge. He whisked away the cloth to reveal a weird contraption composed of glass tubes, wires and brass boxes. "This is not dessert I am carrying, but a device I have invented that captures sounds and stores them so that they can be heard again at the listener's will. I call it the Bartok Permanent Echo Chamber. Listen." Bartok manipulated the device and to everyone's surprise, a voice emanated through the room. It was faint and slightly muffled, but it echoed Gutridge's exact words:

_'We have a contract... and as long as that document exists, you belong to me!' _

"Which brings us to the third point, Sir Franklin," Milton J. Farber said, coming into the room suddenly. He had been lurking out of sight in the kitchen, listening. "You see... that isn't Ernest's book that you just burned." He reached into his carpetbag and drew out a sheaf of papers covered with Ernest's scrawling penmanship. "I took the book from Mr. Pratt's room shortly after I arrived here in Sheridan. After all, my original purpose in coming to Sheridan was to collect his new book."

"I-- but-- you--," Gutridge stuttered, his disbelieving stare jumping from Faber to Pratt to Bartok to Mary Jane. He looked at the plate full of ashes. "What was that, then, that I just burned--?"

Ernest tapped the ashes from his cigar onto the plate. "That would be your now defunct contract with Miss Plane. I'm sure that Mr. Allen will be most interested in the evidence we have gathered. Likely you'll find your assets invested with his publishing company frozen, until such a time as you see fit to sign over to Miss Plane the funds that she has earned while working for you."

"Likely you will indeed," said Farber coldly. "If you don't want your name slandered in every civilized country in the world."

"You wouldn't--!" Gutridge gasped. "If you soil my name, you'll be throwing mud on the reputation of your own publishing company!"

"True. Which is why we will settle with having you reimburse Miss Plane for her time and her contributions before you gracefully retire from the business. The E. C. Allen Publishing Company is bigger than Sir Franklin Gutridge, and the amount of mud that it would take to dirty our name could drown the likes of you!"

Gutridge could find no more words. He gaped at everyone for a few more moments, then closed his mouth and with what dignity he could scrape together, exited the room without looking back.

Faber nodded to Pratt, and then lifted Mary Jane's hand to his lips. "Miss Plane, it's been an honour. I took the liberty of wiring Mr. Allen earlier today, and he asked that I invite you to come to Maine so that he may personally negotiate a new contract with you... to write your _own_ books. He said that he doesn't want to lose a good author like you to any of his competitors."

"But… I thought…" a trace of uncertainty crept into Mary Jane's voice, "Sir Franklin said that Mr. Allen wouldn't publish a book written by a woman."

"I think that you'll find Mr. Allen is much more open-minded than Sir Franklin led you to believe," Ernest said, gesturing widely with his cigar. "There is historical precedence, you know! Mary Shelly, for instance!"

"Some women authors who have encountered prejudice have simply circumvented the problem by publishing under a pen name," Janos added helpfully.

"And what about Jane Austen and Emily Dickenson?" Ramos offered. "I've read their works with great interest. Miss Dickenson is a most compelling poet." When Ernest cocked an eyebrow at him, Ramos added defensively, "What? I studied modern literature and poetry at Harvard for a year."

"I guess you're right, Mr. Pratt," Mary Jane smiled again. "My thanks to you and Professor Bartok and Ramos. And to you, Mr. Faber; I will give Mr. Allen's offer serious consideration."

"Thanks for your help, Milton," Pratt said earnestly, taking Faber by surprise by using his first name without a trace of sarcasm and offering him a handshake.

"I'll give your best to Mr. Allen. I say… I never imagined that I would be participating in a Nicodemus Legend adventure! This has been quite exciting!"

"Well!" announced Bartok jovially, "all's well that ends well!"

**Epilogue**

They were gathered in the sitting room connected to Mary Jane's suite. Ramos had volunteered to fetch a stimulating beverage for Miss Plane, who seemed to be unable to accept that she was finally free of Gutridge's control.

"What about those horrible men that Sir Franklin-- I mean, Dambridge-- those men he hired to steal your book and the Professor's inventions?" Mary Jane asked. "What will happen to them?"

"Our friend's Wiley and Jenk are already in jail, and if they cooperate with the sheriff and help him catch the other two, they will get some consideration come the time they stand before the judge." Ernest accepted a cup from the tray that Ramos was bringing around and handed it to Mary Jane. "All in all, I doubt that we'll have to worry much about them anymore.

"All that you have to worry about, Miss Plane, is what you're going to do... now that you are your own woman."

Mary Jane smiled, gracefully accepting the beverage. "I've always wanted to write a book about the great independent women in history… but I'm not sure that the world is ready for it."

"You've already sold one copy," Ernest assured her.

Ramos handed Mary Jane a folded paper. "This arrived a while ago. Mr. Faber sends word that he is delighted that you have decided to accept Mr. Allen's offer, and that he has reserved first-class accommodations for you on a train leaving Denver. Your coach departs tomorrow at noon."

"First-class-- for me?" Mary Jane's eyes grew round. "Are you serious?"

"Ramos is always serious," Ernest said. He patted Mary Jane's hand gently. "You'll like E. C. He's seems like a gruff old bear of a man, but underneath that... he is a gruff old bear! But he is a genius of an old bear, and he knows talent when he sees it. He'll take good care of you."

"I wish you the very best, Miss Plane." Bartok came forward and kissed her hand gallantly. "I'm afraid we must take your leave now. There are several experiments going back at the compound, and if I don't get back the whole place is likely to explode!"

"I want to thank you, Professor, for what you've done. Your voice capturing device is a stroke of genius!"

Janos laughed. "Oh! Not at all, my dear lady. That was just ventriloquism-- a parlour trick! I merely threw my voice, echoing Sir Franklin's words. There is no such device that can capture a sound so... not yet anyway!"

"No such device... you mean you were bluffing?" Mary Jane covered her mouth as she started to laugh.

"Yes. Old Gypsy tricks do come in handy sometimes! Good-bye, Miss Plane, and good luck! Coming, Ernest?"

Ernest picked up his hat, rising as if to take his leave as well, but Mary Jane caught his arm. "Wait. I'd like to talk to you, Mr. Pratt."

"Go on ahead, Janos. I'll catch up with you." Ernest smiled at Mary Jane, realizing that he was alone with her in her room. Somehow it didn't seem right, and he nervously walked away to look out of the window. "Would you like something with your coffee, Miss Plane? Cream? Sugar? Bourbon? I could have Skeeter bring something up..."

"There is something I'd like, Ernest," Mary Jane said. She set down her cup and rose, crossing the room until she stood right in front of Ernest. "I'd like to spend some time in your room with you, before the coach leaves to take me back East."

Ernest smiled down at her, shock giving way to pleasure. "I'd like that, too, Miss Plane. But this surprises me; you didn't seem like such an... assertive creature... when I first met you."

"There are historical precedence, Mr. Pratt. Shall I site a few for you?"

"I'd be delighted... " Pratt said, folding her hand in the crook of his arm, "hopefully, both of us will be!"

"Ernest!" Bartok voice echoed up from the street outside. "Ernest, are you coming?"

Ernest walked through the open window, Mary Jane on his arm. Smiling over the edge of the balcony rail, he called out, "Not now, Janos!" He looked at his lady and his eyes were soft and gentle as he added in a low voice, "Miss Plane is going to give me a private lecture on the independence of the modern female." He raised his voice to address his friends again; "I'll see you boys tomorrow.

"And here's another idea," Ernest said, as he escorted Mary Jane back inside. "Let's send our Mr. Faber a note that you will not be needing a ticket for the coach tomorrow."

"But, Ernest… how will I get to Denver in time to catch the train?"

"Have you ever been up in a hot-air balloon, my dear? It's the _**only**_ way to travel…"

_fin!_


End file.
